


Why should we rise?

by megyal



Category: Harry Potter - Rowling
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-01-22
Updated: 2007-01-22
Packaged: 2017-10-11 14:18:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,761
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/113296
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/megyal/pseuds/megyal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p><strong>Beta:</strong> <a href="http://mirrorwakes.livejournal.com/profile"><img/></a><a href="http://mirrorwakes.livejournal.com/"><strong>mirrorwakes</strong></a>, who betas with care and off-topic quips that I live for; *hands her snowflakes*. Also, the lovely <a href="http://winnettfics.livejournal.com/profile"><img/></a><a href="http://winnettfics.livejournal.com/"><strong>winnettfics</strong></a> gave wonderful help for the epilogue.</p>
    </blockquote>





	Why should we rise?

**Author's Note:**

> **Beta:** [](http://mirrorwakes.livejournal.com/profile)[**mirrorwakes**](http://mirrorwakes.livejournal.com/), who betas with care and off-topic quips that I live for; *hands her snowflakes*. Also, the lovely [](http://winnettfics.livejournal.com/profile)[**winnettfics**](http://winnettfics.livejournal.com/) gave wonderful help for the epilogue.

_A new day has come.  
-Celine Dion_

It's a new morning.

As Draco watched the sun peek over the horizon it seemed to him it would never rise in the same way, ever again. Instead of leaning forward against the sturdy white balcony and peering at the sun as it melted over the soft green hills, he pressed his hip against the cool wood and observed the fresh spring rays creep slowly over Harry's skin. Harry had one hand pressed between his cheek and the pillow, the other hand stretched out over the empty side of the bed, reaching, searching. The sunlight was more insistent now, pressing luminous kisses against the soft black of his hair. Draco gave an inward wry laugh; he should not begrudge the sun a taste of Harry.

But still; this man was now completely his. The sun should find its own Harry to fondle.

***

He wasn't quite sure when everything had changed to this, as insidious and as natural as night turning to day. This was the first time Harry had spent the entire night.

Usually, when they were finished, Draco would get up, sling on his robe and go into the bathroom. He would lean on the door after shutting it, eyes closed even though he'd be standing in the dark; after fifteen minutes, maybe twenty, he would go back out, hugging the silken fabric closer to his skin as he stared at the neatened bed Harry left behind. Harry made the bed with mechanical precision, neat sharp corners, pillows perfectly parallel to the folded-down section of the duvet. Draco would spend a few minutes staring at the bed without looking at it, because what were they?

They weren't lovers. Lovers didn't ignore each other at public events, sitting as far apart as possible with their respective friends as gradient buffers between them, starting with strictly Slytherin at one end, filtering to Ravenclaw through to Hufflepuff until there was solely Gryffindor territory. Lovers didn't stare coolly at each other until the air between them was filled with a heavy sort of expectation, terse and impatient.

Neither friends. Friends met for lunch and smiled at silly inside jokes while rolling their eyes at each other. Friends stood by one another when the world at large decided to take one's name and exhibit it without consideration. He would have defended Harry, anytime he asked, even with that Ministry fracas last November. The Malfoy name was still feared in a lot of circles; Harry never asked, however, and he had never offered.

Fuck-buddies? No. That still wasn't right, because that annoying word 'buddies' was attached. The first unfortunate person who referred to Draco as a 'buddy' would have their privates stuck between their eyebrows. In any case, fuck-buddies didn't quite encapsulate the heady desperation that overtook them on a regular basis, hands roaming restlessly over any available inch of skin, backs arching off the crumpled sheets, the hot inner skin of thighs tightening against sturdy hips; or the way that Draco would lie on his stomach under the pale cotton sheets, Harry on his side right next to him; more than likely, Harry would have one long leg thrown right over the delicate concave bend of Draco's back, his head propped up against one fist while his other hand stroked a light questing path up and down Draco's exposed skin.

Did fuck-buddies gaze at each other silently in such oddly comforting moments? The corner of Draco's mouth would be tilted up in the tiniest of smug smiles and Harry's eyes were openly amused and relaxed, sooty lashes sweeping luxuriously in slow blinks. Then Draco would begin to pack his heart back into its icy cage and quite possibly the whole process was displayed in his eyes, because Harry's face would shutter, folding in on itself so that the stoic mask he had developed in the war slid effectively in its place. A chasm would open between them, Harry rolling onto his back with his arm flung over his face as Draco reached for his robe.

But somehow, it had all altered yesterday, a chain of events linking together and locking around them both until even the sun rose differently today, or maybe Draco watched it from an entirely different perspective.

He had visited his mother's grave yesterday, standing stiffly in front of the marker as the chilly wind tugged at the pale wisps of hair under his fur hat. He had worn the heavy coat she had loved to see on him, tucking his gloved hands into the opposite sleeves. He had spoken to her about his job, managing a consultancy firm with Granger of all people, who equated their jobs to actuaries in the Muggle world, not that Draco gave a flying shit what that meant. He had even told her about Harry, smiling a little as he detailed how someone had finally found Potter's sense of style and while it was not particularly designer, it was well-fitted and neat, showing off Harry's strong lean body. Draco could hardly prevent himself from glaring at people who ogled Harry as if he was a full-course meal and they had been fed bread and water for months; and he hoped it wasn't wishful thinking when he thought he detected a narrow-eyed green glint from Harry as some witch or wizard stared wistfully at Draco.

For some reason, he had returned to the flat feeling as if his insides had been ground into sharp dust, diamond-gritty against his throat and the back of his eyes. The signature in the wards told him that Harry had been here, intentionally leaving behind intense streaks of energy among the tightly interwoven filaments of the wards. He had spent a good while searching for what Harry might have left behind, feeling disconcerted at the sudden delight that ricocheted through his mind when he finally spotted the flowers on the round table he kept beside the bed. Sweet little white bell-flowers drooping with fragrant delicacy, set inside a plain glass container that was round and squat.

He had plucked the small card firmly tucked under the vase and stared at Harry's cramped scrawl.

_Spring snowflake (Leucojum vernum)  
Neville tells me it is one of the first blooms, even pushing through snow. For some people they represent new beginnings.  
-HP_

Draco stared at the brief note, idly cataloguing the strange way Harry formed his _m_'s. He wondered if there was a wizard who had ever died from a strange unwanted bubbling of helpless hope.

Pansy had come for him bodily in the evening, complaining that they hadn't been out in months and stopping short when she had stormed into his bedroom to pull out clothes for him.

"Where did all these plants come from?" She frowned, blinking at the plush curls of the vine he had charmed on a whim to fall lazily over the bed, keeping the snowflakes company. "It smells like a wild forest in here."

"I like it," he had informed her, steering her deftly towards the closet before she could snoop around the white flowers. Thankfully, she dived into the neatly ordered rows of clothes and came out with one of her favourite pieces to see on him: a sleeveless turtleneck snug against his slim build, the severe black setting off his pale skin. He tried to tell her that he hated the way his arms looked in that: skinny and overly-long, but she had Apparated them in the middle of his protests, drowning his words in the pulsating beat of the wizard-club music and loud conversation.

"I suppose," Pansy said drily, ordering drinks at the bar and handing him a cool glass, "We simply must resign ourselves to the fact that we'll always have the bad luck of stumbling over the G-Unit anywhere we go."

Draco let out a huff of amused air, his eyes flickering across the gyrating crowd until they met Harry's. A dark eyebrow quirked in an expression that he was sure Harry had stolen from him, sardonically amused as Harry stirred his drink. Granger sat on one side, a throng of Weasleys spilling all around them, chattering almost non-stop. Even when Granger had grasped Harry by the forearm, yelling in his ear and laughing as the Weasel reached across and pulled at one of her brown ringlets, Harry's eyes remained fixed on his. They had darkened when some half-drunk wizard had clamped around Draco's waist, hauling him without ceremony to the dance floor, much too far away from his drink. In the press of the crowd, Draco managed to punch his abductor in the gut, stomp on his toe with one booted-heel and turned away in satisfaction to bump right into Harry.

He felt the heat of Harry's hands press against his upper-arms, squeezing a little as Harry pulled him close. One hand slid up his chest to curl around his neck; the other travelled indolently to the small of his back, moulding their bodies even closer together. One of Harry's legs slipped with calm familiarity between his; Draco smiled in triumph to feel a hard column press against his thigh, his own cock throbbing in response. Draco slung his arms around Harry's neck, pressing their cheeks together as their hips moved in time to the music. He had been careful with the metal of Harry's glasses, making sure his face didn't bend the round frames.

"Of course you can have this dance, Potter," he had purred, the corners of their lips brushing together. Potter chuckled low, the vibrations tickling his own chest. "This way I'll be sure to give Weasley a heart-attack."

"Hmm." Harry turned his face ever so slightly, stroking his mouth tantalisingly over Draco's parted lips. "Then it's a good thing he knows about us."

Draco jerked back sharply, a startled cobra, Harry's hand still a firm weight on his neck.

"What 'us'?" he snapped, when he really meant to say _you told them about us?!_ and Harry let him go so abruptly that he staggered into someone and spilt their drink all over his boots. Harry looked away from him, pushing his glasses up his nose. Finally, he gave Draco a quick nod.

"Later, then," he threw over his shoulder as he strode back to his table. Draco noted the unsurprised expressions on Granger's and Weasley's faces, the way they didn't reach for Harry when he sat down at his place; Granger crossed her legs and grasped her knee, saying something urgent to Harry, who made a face and shook his head as he took a long sip of his drink. Weasley asked him something else, and Harry gave him a roll of his eyes, shaking his head again with a faint smile curving the full mouth. As Draco made his way to where Pansy sat at the bar, he noticed Weasley motion with his chin and Harry look away.

"Well." Pansy's voice was flat as she pushed another colourful drink in his direction. He drank without tasting it at all, looking at Harry's averted face. "Well, well, well."

"Alright, _yes_," he murmured irritably, plucking at the material of his turtleneck, still feeling the clear hot imprint of Harry's hands on his arms. "Don't even say anymore."

"Wouldn't think of it." She motioned with two fingers at the bartender and another round of drinks materialised in their glasses. Draco glared at his, pressing his forefinger against the ribbed side of his glass. "But for how long?"

Draco shrugged, calculating.

"Nearly four months."

Pansy looked impressed and slightly taken-aback at the same time.

"That's longer than anyone else. Is he that good in bed?" Pansy's eyes were bright as they flickered in Harry's direction, taking in the smooth curve of Harry's jaw as he twisted in his seat to say something to an older Weasley. "I suppose he is. Look at him."

"I'm looking," Draco gritted out as Harry got up out of his seat and pressed himself against that particular Weasley, the one who was a dragon-tamer, apparently, hugging and laughing openly. Pansy's dark eyes rested on Draco again, in the same calculating way his mother used to look at him, as if her eyes could strip away the skin and burrow into his mind.

"Well... well, well, we--"

"Shut the fuck up, dear," Draco snapped and drank far too rapidly.

***

That night, Harry had arrived late at Draco's flat; Draco lay sullenly in the large sofa, listening to the fire chatter softly to itself. His favourite silk robe, the red one with the grey piping, was cool against his skin and he stretched out on his stomach, staring as the flames slowly died down.

He hadn't realised he'd fallen asleep until Harry's careful baritone floated smokily into his ear. Draco turned over slowly, feeling as if he was floating in honey, Harry's fingers trailing a tender line on his cheekbone.

"Come on," Harry said and Draco kept his eyes closed, feigning sleepiness as Harry led him to his bedroom. There was something comforting about that, stumbling a little as Harry hand rested lightly on his shoulder and guided him. He felt the cool air of his bedroom, with one window still wide-open, and knew when he was standing right by his bed; he could hear Harry tugging on the sheets.

"Here." Harry was turning him and pushing gently; Draco allowed himself to be lowered into the soft sheets. He sighed for effect and he heard Harry answer in a low voice, "Good night, love."

It was that last word -- something he had never heard Harry say to him before -- that one word that lit Draco up from the inside like a new morning. His hand shot out almost without his permission, grasping Harry by the wrist. He opened his eyes to see Harry bent over him, eyes and hair dark in the cold light of the moon. Draco could feel the weight of Harry's stare push him deeper against the pillows.

"The flowers." Draco cleared his throat and sat up a little. Harry tried half-heartedly to twist his wrist out of Draco's grasp. "They're quite lovely."

"Alright."

"Stop fidgeting. Where are you going?"

Harry threw him an incredulous look.

"Why are you...? It's night, Draco. I usually leave about this time."

Draco pulled Harry down, feeling the rough material of Harry's coat stroke against the inside of his arm. Harry's face was filled with a strange sort of resignation. Draco took a chance.

"Stay."

He managed to have Harry straddle him, worrying the buttons on the long sensible coat Harry still had on. Harry batted his hands away, reaching to undo the red tie of the robe. Draco realised he was holding his breath and let it out quickly, feeling ridiculous. He was acting as if this was their first time ever, when in fact their _real_ first time had been surly and messy, more like an argument made physical than sex.

Harry was saying something against his neck as his hand slid inside Draco's robe; Draco refocused.

"What was that?"

"My god, Malfoy, pay attention. I was asking how long I would be allowed to stay."

Draco pulled his arms out of the sleeves of his garment and lay bare under Harry, frowning at the other man's state of dress. He reached for the coat and was once again denied by Harry's quick hands.

"As long as you want, I suppose."

Harry's mouth had found a nipple and Draco forgot what they were talking about. He raised his arms over his head, suddenly feeling the urge to display something he did not understand, naked and uncharacteristically unsure. Harry moved to the other nipple and whispered to it.

"What if I want to stay for as long as possible? Till tomorrow. And the day after. And--"

"Then just stay. You talk far too much."

Harry leaned back, unbuttoning his overcoat slowly. Draco heard it fall to the floor, his eyes fixed on Harry's as those tanned fingers worked on his shirt, and when the black material joined the coat on the floor, Draco reached out, stroking the subtle curve of his collarbone with thumbs that knew every inch of Harry's skin, but were willing to learn again and again.

"When we're finished," Harry had said, bending down to press his mouth in a hot line down Draco's trembling stomach, licking a circle around his navel, "you won't run away into the bathroom tonight. You'll stay, for as long as I want."

Draco was raising his head to say that he _never_ ran away, how _dare_ he... but Harry's mouth had slipped over him, sucking, licking, dragging the sharp edges of teeth ever so slightly, just the way Draco liked it; the connection between his brain and his mouth abruptly severed.

***

He had never seen Harry wake up before and it was a novel experience; long tan limbs in a slow dance of revival, one hand reaching in an automatic move for glasses. The post-owl had already delivered the day's _Prophet_. He waited until Harry stumbled to the bathroom and returned to flop on the bed before wordlessly handing him the paper.

A picture of them together at the club danced sensuously on the front page; foreheads pressed together as Harry's fingertips tickled up his pale bare arms. The caption was flashing _HARRY POTTER &amp; DRACO MALFOY_ in scandalised stutters. Harry shot a slightly worried look at him, uncertain in the sweet light of morning, but Draco was smiling a little at the sun. Harry swung his legs out of bed and Draco finally looked at him.

"Where are you going?" Light tone, accompanied by a blatant exposure of long fair thighs in the high side-slits of the robe as Draco leaned against the banister.

"That's the second time you've asked me that," Harry said, obviously trying not to stare as he put on his glasses. "It's day. People get up and about during the day. "

"Even on a Sunday?" Draco nodded as his house-elf, Tinka, popped into view and placed tea on the side table right next to his flowers and then popped back out. "There's this Muggle poem I liked. How did it go...? Ah, yes: '_Tis true, 'tis day; what though it be? O wilt thou therefore rise from me?'_"

Harry looked at him carefully; a small hopeful smile dawned across his face as he leaned back into the pillows and watched Draco pull off his robe. A dusting of golden motes shimmered gently on sunbeams around them.

"Is there more?" Harry's hand was now stroking warmth into his back, Draco draped almost entirely on top of him; his chin propped up on one wrist atop Harry's chest. He studied Harry's indulgent expression and nodded slowly.

"_'Why should we rise, because 'tis light? Did we lie down, because 'twas night?'_" Draco paused and the ends of Harry's lips curved more, lovelier than any daybreak. Draco's voice was a rusty whisper, "_'Love, which in spite of darkness brought us hither, should in despite of light keep us together.'_"

Harry would not stop staring at him, the _Prophet_ forgotten beside them.

"It's a wonderful morning," he said.

"I know."

***

_Epilogue_

_Morning  
Saturday  
5.00 am._

In the pale light of a chilly spring morning, Harry's hair is charcoal against the blank canvas of the pillow, gentle smudges of an artist's hand. A creature of habit, he sleeps on his back, a terrifyingly deep slumber, not moving even when Draco pokes him experimentally in the side with a sharp elbow. When Harry starts to snore -- doing this at about four billion decibels -- Draco struggles to tip him onto his side, so he would stop that infernal noise. Harry, despite his slim build, is amazingly heavy; quite possibly due to the fact that he eats on the hour, every hour.

Draco usually wakes long before Harry, typically at five, sometimes at five thirty. Draco dreams in soothing calculations, long equations that he decodes in his dreams, a not unwelcome side effect from those long shifts at the bank. When he solves the last one, he wakes up almost too quickly, his brain now snapping into almost frenzied action, organising entire lists of Things To Be Done: from sending out to get a new broom-care kit for Harry, to ordering a replacement for that mirror, the one in the second bedroom which had airily informed him last week that the slight frown crease in between his light brows wasn't going away any time soon.

Stupid mirror.

***

_8.13 am._

Harry will tell anyone who asks that being spoilt is not necessarily bad. If being spoilt means waking up on Saturday and lounging about in the bed for the whole damned day, then being spoilt is the best thing since the invention of the broom.

By the time Harry decides to stretch luxuriously into the land of the awake, Draco is already hours ahead of him, glasses perched almost on the very tip of his nose as he scowls at the Financial section of the _Prophet_. Draco's reading glasses are square-framed, thin-lensed for his far-sightedness. He had snarled almost incessantly for Harry to get him the Dolce &amp; Gabbana ones, until Harry had stomped around ungraciously and bought the frames in a colour the Muggle clerk at the optometrist's referred to as 'eggplant'. Merlin on a pole, it just looked blackish-purple to him, but only people like Draco and that snotty clerk could ever really tell.

He yawns and makes to get up, but Draco puts a cool hand on his shoulder.

"Where are you going?"

Harry plucks at his eyelashes delicately and squints because Draco's side of the bed is at the window and the sunlight moves around him in swaths of warmth, lighting up his hair like a halo. Draco rarely grins, but his eyes are a soft grey smile, tinged into azure because of his long blue nightshirt.

"Brush my teeth."

"Here." Draco leans over and presses his lips against Harry's, who wrinkles his nose as a vigorous cleaning charm leaves his mouth feeling dry. At least there's a faint taste of mint. Draco hands him the first section of the _Prophet_ and Harry settles back into the pillows and waits for Tinka to send up his morning tea. "You know the rules. Don't get out of bed."

Harry makes a blah-blah-blah face, opening the paper and sticking his nose deep into it. Draco shakes his head and goes back to the finance news, brushing his long silvery hair out of his eyes.

 

fin

**Author's Note:**

> The poem that Draco quotes is [Break of Day](http://www.luminarium.org/sevenlit/donne/breake.htm), by John Donne.


End file.
